


Because I've Loved You Since Eden

by phodyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale is an oblivious idiot, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-28 21:23:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20432660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phodyl/pseuds/phodyl
Summary: "Angel.Why did Crowley always call him that? He always assumed it was an adversarial jab, a reminder of their opposition to each other, but after all this talk of “our side,” Aziraphale had rather assumed he would stop. But he didn’t stop. If anything, he had been using it more as of late.Better not to bring it up,the angel thought, but somehow that thought must not have had the right amount of conviction behind it, because moments later Aziraphale heard himself asking quietly, “Crowley, why do you always call me ‘angel’?” He kicked himself the moment it came out. He dreaded what the answer might be."In which Crowley is hopelessly in love with Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is hopelessly oblivious and in denial





	Because I've Loved You Since Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Wow so this is the first fanfic I've written in literally five years, because I absolutely fell in love with Good Omens and these two ineffable idiots. It's also the first thing I've ever published on ao3, and I'm really excited to join in! 
> 
> This fic goes back and forth between perspectives, essentially showing the same scene from both points of view. There are also, naturally, footnotes, which have been conveniently linked so you can click down and be brought back to the same spot in the fic. The return link is set to bring you back to the beginning of the paragraph in which the footnote was contained.
> 
> Also, shoutout to moonlight1314 for the beta, and if you'd like, you can find me on tumblr at ineffablyadumbass 
> 
> Happy reading!

Crowley and Aziraphale were both quite a bit buzzed by the time they left the restaurant, having indulged in some very nice wine and each other’s company over the last several hours, but in true fashion, that didn’t stop Crowley from asking, “Back to mine for a nightcap?” as he was wont to do these days. He was only slightly less careful about hiding his affections since the whole just-barely-averted-Apocalypse mess, but _surely_ trying his level best to spend as much time around Aziraphale as possible wasn’t giving anything away. He just had to be careful not to get _too_ drunk, is all, as the lifting of an existential threat made it very hard indeed to conceal one’s true feelings when intoxicated.

“I rather feel it makes more sense to go back to the bookshop, dear,” Aziraphale replied, looking thoughtful. Crowley’s face immediately sank, until the angel, after a brief pause, continued, “Your wine selection is frankly terrible, and I picked up some nice scotch a few days ago I thought you might like.” 

“Oh,” was all Crowley could manage, a slight blush tinting his cheeks, which he hid by leaning down and running a hand over the door of his Bentley, pretending to examine a possible scratch. It wasn’t like Aziraphale hadn’t already been in the habit of getting little gifts and things that had reminded him of Crowley on a regular basis, both pre- and post-Apocawasn’t, but it still sparked a feeling in the demon he couldn’t quite describe. Every single time, to his great chagrin. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale questioned. “Is it really such a problem going to the bookshop rather than your flat?” He sounded offended, genuinely upset. Crowley silently chided himself for not being more careful with his words (or lack thereof, in this instance, he supposed).

“No! No, of course not. I’d love to, angel,” Crowley blurted out quickly, standing bolt upright to look at him over the car. He couldn’t have Aziraphale thinking he didn’t feel at home in the shop, now, could he? That just wouldn’t do.

“Ah, well, jolly good then. Shall we?” the angel replied, gesturing to the car.

****************’

Aziraphale was only a bit drunk after leaving the restaurant. He was proud of himself; showing restraint around Crowley had become rather difficult these days, especially now that he knew Hell wouldn’t come for his demon if they found out an angel was in love with him--well, not in love. He didn’t like the connotations of that. They had both been stationed on earth from the Beginning, watching over Her creation; naturally, they’d cultivated something of a friendship, but it wouldn’t do having either side thinking it was anything beyond that. Yes, he had exercised great restraint, only two glasses of wine after dinner. That was, until Crowley asked, “Back to mine for a nightcap?”

The angel knew he should probably say no. This was a bad idea. More alcohol could only make things worse for him; he knew full well it made it difficult to hold his tongue, and yet he heard himself say, “I rather feel it makes more sense to go back to the bookshop, dear.” Evidently Crowley took this as a “no,” judging by his face, which was not Aziraphale’s intention at all, so he quickly added, “Your wine selection is frankly terrible, and I picked up some nice scotch a few days ago I thought you might like.” Now he’d have to covertly miracle a bottle of scotch, but that was fine.

“Oh,” was all Crowley said before leaning down, apparently examining the door of his Bentley. _"Oh." Really, the nerve,_ Aziraphale thought.

“Oh? Is it really such a problem going to the bookshop rather than your flat?” He couldn’t quite place the reasoning for the amount of offence he took, other than, well, he had tried very hard to make the shop as cozy and comfortable as possible, going so far to keep the back room where they increasingly more often spent their evenings a little more toasty and humid than he would generally. After all, Crowley did still have those few serpentine tendencies that never seemed to fully go away. The humidity had been a great compromise on Aziraphale’s part; it was rather bad for the books, but Crowley’s comfort was a little more important, so he tried not to think about that part too much. 

“No! No, of course not. I’d love to, angel.” The words had spilled hurriedly out of Crowley’s mouth, a mild tinge of panic running underneath them as he quickly straightened himself. Aziraphale briefly considered that Crowley must’ve been worried he had upset the angel somehow,[1] which would mean that Crowley cared about Aziraphale’s feelings towards him, which would mean that Crowley cared about _Aziraphale,_ but that just couldn’t be, could it? He had stopped doubting that demons--or at least Crowley--were capable of love some time ago, because he could sometimes sense it in Crowley when they were eating together, or getting drunk together, or reading together, or what have you. It seemed Crowley’s love was focused on material things, but it was love nonetheless.[2] But there was absolutely no way that love could be directed at him.

“Ah, well, jolly good then. Shall we?” the angel replied, gesturing to the car.

****************

He and Aziraphale were both quite a bit more drunk than they’d intended to be, so far as Crowley could tell. Not the kind of drunk that lent itself to sweeping confessions of love, thankfully, but the kind that did tend to loosen the tongue, wriggling out questions that had been forced down and answers that were a little too honest. Crowley was sprawled on a chair, limbs hanging awkwardly, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put them. Aziraphale, for his part, was lounging quite a bit more leisurely than was his tendency on his couch.

“Y’know, angel, thisss may well be the most fanstic scotch I‘ver had,” Crowley slurred, swirling his half-empty glass, a few hours and a few too many glasses in.

“Well, I’m glad you like it, dear,” Aziraphale replied evenly, somewhat more sober and significantly more composed than his companion. He paused for a moment, looking suspiciously like he had an _important question,_ and a slightly uncomfortable silence filled the air, though Crowley really didn’t notice until Aziraphale began speaking again.

“Crowley, why do you always call me ‘angel’?” he asked softly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.

“Wha d’y’mean?” 

“Well, it’s not as if _I_ go around calling you _‘demon’_ all the time, is it? It made sense before--” the angel made a dramatic, sweeping gesture-- “all this, and the Armageddon business, but I rather thought we’d become, well..._closer_ since then.” 

_He’s kidding, right?_ Crowley thought to himself. _Does he seriously…?_ One look at Aziraphale’s face confirmed that he definitely was not kidding. 

“Zir’phale,” Crowley said as close to flatly as he could get while so thoroughly drunk, “Az’r’phale, d’you--d’you think that _allllllllllllll_ this time, v’been calling you ‘angel’ as a fref--refrer--bless it, angel, I’m too drunk for this, why’d’ya’hv’ta do this now?” He was only a little cross, but he had a feeling it came off much stronger than he had intended. The angel had sat up straighter on the couch in response, which was never a good sign. “L’me sober up a li’l, hmm?” Crowley decided he should still be a bit intoxicated for this conversation, but not so much so that he couldn’t say the word “reference.” Aziraphale just sat there, hands folded in his lap, looking down as if he were wishing the floor would swallow him. 

It was about a minute later that Crowley decided he had himself at the exact right level of drunk and continued his explanation, sans slurring and difficulty pronouncing words. 

“_Aziraphale,_” he said, nearly a whisper, softness and concern creeping into his voice, “do you really think that all this time, I’ve been calling you ‘angel’ in reference to _what_ you are?” 

**************

Clearly, Crowley had gotten rather intoxicated rather quickly. 

Aziraphale was working very hard to pace himself, of course. He certainly did not need any accidental confessions this evening.[3]

Crowley was sprawled on a chair, limbs hanging awkwardly as always. Aziraphale found it rather amusing that the demon never seemed to be able to sit in a chair correctly. For his part, he was lounging quite a bit more leisurely than was his tendency on his couch.

“Y’know, angel, thisss may well be the most fanstic scotch I‘ver had,” Crowley slurred, swirling his half-empty glass. Good Lord, he may have overdone it with the alcohol content of this particular bottle. He had to admit though, seeing Crowley this drunk while he was still sober enough to find it endearing was, well, endearing. 

“Well, I’m glad you like it, dear,” Aziraphale replied evenly. He had tried very hard to make it “fanstic” (he chuckled inwardly at that), and was quite glad to know he succeeded. But then he stopped for a moment, processing the entirety of Crowley’s sentence.

_Y’know, angel._

_Angel._

Why did Crowley always call him that? He always assumed it was an adversarial jab, a reminder of their opposition to each other, but after all this talk of “our side,” Aziraphale had rather assumed he would stop. But he didn’t stop. If anything, he had been using it more as of late. 

_Better not to bring it up,_ the angel thought, but somehow that thought must not have had the right amount of conviction behind it, because moments later Aziraphale heard himself asking quietly, “Crowley, why do you always call me ‘angel’?” He kicked himself the moment it came out. He dreaded what the answer might be. 

“Wha d’y’mean?” Crowley really was quite drunk, wasn’t he? This was such a terrible time to bring up the topic, and yet…

“Well, it’s not as if _I_ go around calling you _‘demon’_ all the time, is it? It made sense before--” the angel gestured vaguely-- “all this, and the Armageddon business, but I rather thought we’d become, well..._closer_ since then.” He was really trying not to get himself too worked up, but it seemed he was not succeeding.

“Zir’phale,” Crowley slurred awkwardly. The angel had a brief thought that it was rather cute, hearing his love--_no, stop that_\--his friend say his name in that stumbling drunken voice of his. Aziraphale realized in that moment that he must be a bit more inebriated than he previously thought. Oops. “Az’r’phale, d’you--d’you think that _allllllllllllll_ this time, v’been calling you ‘angel’ as a fref--refrer--bless it, angel, I’m too drunk for this, why’d’ya’hv’ta do this now?” 

What on _earth_ could that mean? And why did he sound so frustrated when he said it?

“L’me sober up a li’l, hmm?” Crowley requested. Aziraphale supposed he couldn’t deny him that, so he sat up a little straighter, folding his hands in his lap. He tried his best to be patient and not completely lose himself in the panic creeping up his throat.

After about a minute--though it felt like hours, of course--Crowley softly whispered, “_Aziraphale_, do you really think that all this time, I’ve been calling you ‘angel’ in reference to _what_ you are?” He sounded so concerned, so soft, so...loving. No, that couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be it at all.

***********************

“Well, what else would it be?” the angel responded, looking somewhat dejected. Crowley really couldn’t have that.

The demon moved swiftly to the couch, setting down his glass along the way, and sat next to him, not so close as to be touching, but just shy of it. “Hey, look at me,” Crowley said, and when Aziraphale didn’t comply, he reached a hand out gingerly, stopping halfway through as if considering whether this was a good idea before continuing, to the other’s face, gently tilting his chin up while repeating, “Look at me, Aziraphale, please.” 

There was something resembling an uncomfortable mixture of shame, sadness, and hope on the angel’s face when he finally raised it, and it was all Crowley could do to force himself to look Aziraphale in the eye. “Listen to me. How could you think that all this time I’ve meant that in anything _resembling_ hostility, you silly, _stupid_ creature?”

Crowley saw Aziraphale soften--well, more like deflate, really. “Then--then how did you mean it? How _do_ you mean it?” 

“It’s--well, it’ssss--” Crowley was admittedly a bit stressed now; he hadn’t really thought this far ahead, and it was becoming clear to him that that may have been a mistake. But there was no way out of this conversation that wouldn’t leave Aziraphale feeling rejected, hurt, maybe even hated, and he couldn’t bear the thought of doing that. Not after all that had happened. Not after he nearly lost him already, and in a very permanent way at that. Not after Aziraphale had dropped his gaze yet again, as if the weight of the conversation had pulled him down.

He took a few deep breaths,[4] calming himself, centering, and then tried again, knowing full well it was too late to try to conceal the depth of his affection--no, love really, calling it anything else would be lying to himself--his love for Aziraphale. _Might as well,_ he thought quickly.

“Ange--Aziraphale, please, please look at me.” Crowley waited, debating reaching out again but deciding against it. After a few false starts, the angel met his gaze. Crowley realized he looked close to tears and felt something in his chest shift, a heaviness. And it _hurt._

“Aziraphale, it’s a pet name. Like how humans use it.[5] A term of endearment, like--like the way you call me ‘dear.’ That’s how I mean it now, and it’s how I’ve always meant it. It was never a jab, or a taunt.” _It was always an unconfessed “I love you,”_ he stopped himself from saying, but the thought was there. He couldn’t really keep it pressed down anymore, not with the way Aziraphale was looking at him.

“A--a pet name? And--and I call _everyone_ ‘dear,’ Crowley, I hardly see how it’s the same, although I suppose you’re really the only one who--” and the angel stopped himself with a gulp, as if swallowing the words threatening to force themselves out. 

“‘The only one who’ _what,_ angel?” Now it was Crowley’s turn to barely whisper out the words, and to have that look, that awful mix of sorrow and desperation and longing and shame and hopefulness. Hopefulness, that was the worst part. He had loved Aziraphale for centuries, millennia even, but never let himself believe that his angel might feel the same way. At least, not until this moment, this dreadful, awful, _hopeful_ moment that hung between the both of them like fog hung over London on a chilly morning. It was almost too much to bear.

“You’re the only one for whom it’s ever had any _meaning,_ Crowley.” Aziraphale looked away again. Satan, was this hard.

*******************

“Well, what else would it be?” Aziraphale tried not to sound too dejected. He hoped he had succeeded.[6]

Suddenly Crowley was sitting next to him on the couch, almost so close as to be touching, but not quite--_oh, you could just come ever so slightly closer,_ Aziraphale wanted to say, or maybe move to bridge the gap himself, but he sat frozen and silent instead.

“Hey, look at me,” Crowley had said, and the angel suddenly realized he was staring at the floor. He really, really did not want to look up, though, because if he did, he was sure Crowley would see every emotion smeared across his face. Much as he wished he didn’t, Aziraphale had always worn his heart on his sleeve in moments like these. 

Suddenly there was a hand under his chin, ever so gentle, and again he heard, “Look at me, Aziraphale, please.” He supposed he had no choice but to comply, though his head was swimming with the implications of the hand Crowley had extended. “Listen to me,” Crowley said, looking him in the eye. That was rather uncomfortable, because it meant Aziraphale had to look him in the eye back, and that had become ever so difficult. “How could you think that all this time I’ve meant that in anything _resembling_ hostility, you silly, _stupid_ creature?”

Aziraphale was aware that Crowley had never spoken to him this way before, so soft, so concerned, so--he didn’t want to think it, but it was there--so loving, even more so than a few moments ago, regardless of the sharpness of the words themselves. There was a moment of silence before Aziraphale asked, half a whisper, “Then--then how did you mean it? How _do_ you mean it?” 

“It’s--well, it’ssss--” Oh, that hiss. That was a message Aziraphale couldn’t ignore after all these years. Crowley was clearly struggling with this just as much as he was, which was frankly more upsetting than reassuring. He allowed his gaze to drop once more to the floor, and he heard Crowley take a deep breath, and then another, and another, before he continued. 

“Ange--Aziraphale, please, please look at me.” This time there was no hand, no prompting. Aziraphale knew he had no choice but to oblige. Continuing to look away could only cause them both more hurt, and he simply couldn’t do that, not to Crowley, not after all that had happened. It took a few tries to override the instinct to crouch away, look down, make himself small, but eventually he did. Once Crowley was able to fix him with those eyes again--deep, rich amber in this light, flecked with so many colors that it was as if they contained reflections of the stars he had made before he Fell, so beautiful, always so beautiful--_stop it_\--he continued his explanation. “Aziraphale, it’s a pet name. Like how humans use it. A term of endearment, like--like the way you call me ‘dear.’ That’s how I mean it now, and it’s how I’ve always meant it. It was never a jab, or a taunt.” He could sense something unsaid, some unspoken--well, it felt like love, but that couldn’t be it, surely. 

He couldn’t hide the swirling mass of emotions that welled in his chest. They made their way into his voice quite of their own volition. “A--a pet name? And--and I call _everyone_ ‘dear,’ Crowley, I hardly see how it’s the same, although I suppose you’re really the only one who--” and he somehow managed to cut himself off. Maybe Crowley hadn’t noticed that last bit.

But of course, Crowley had noticed. “‘The only one who’ _what,_ angel?” It only got harder to continue looking at him. Crowley’s face, too, held such a tide of emotions. Sadness, shame, hope, and--and love, but that couldn’t be, simply couldn’t, Aziraphale must be reading too much into it, projecting things.

But projecting things meant he must feel that same love in kind. Aziraphale just couldn’t stop digging himself into new holes tonight.

“You’re the only one for whom it’s ever had any _meaning,_ Crowley.” The angel couldn’t take it anymore, looking right at him. His gaze shifted back to some spot on the floor, or maybe his knee, or a slightly out of place book--anywhere but Crowley’s face, really. He couldn’t stand to see the reaction, the rejection he was sure was imminent despite himself, despite the hope that bubbled in his chest. 

***************

All Crowley could think about was the night after Tadfield. Aziraphale had stayed at his flat--he hadn’t anywhere else to go, really, with the bookshop burned to the ground--and fallen asleep for quite possibly the first time in his existence, though Crowley couldn’t be sure. They’d been spectacularly drunk, and he was sure Aziraphale had forgotten how he’d collapsed into Crowley’s chest, desperate hands searching for something to hold onto, some bit of Crowley, just to know he was there. And really, Crowley needed that touch just as much, maybe even more, and he let Aziraphale fall asleep against him. 

He had stayed awake that night. Couldn’t sleep for the life of him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fire. The flames consuming the bookshop, consuming Aziraphale. He heard his angel scream, which of course Aziraphale had not done, but it came to him nonetheless. Knowing that it was just an accidental discorporation, now completely sorted thanks to Adam, did nothing to ease the fear and horror that Crowley felt. With Aziraphale sleeping soundly, he did the only thing he could think to do to ease his own suffering: he nuzzled his face into Aziraphale’s hair, those lovely soft curls, and whispered over and over, barely audible even to himself, “_Please don’t leave me again, angel, I love you._” He shouldn’t have done it, but in that moment, it would’ve been impossible to stop. 

“I--oh.” It took Crowley a moment to compose himself. That did sound rather like a confession that stopped just short, just as his explanation had been a confession that stopped just short. “Give me a moment, angel, would you? I don’t want to say something stupid here, I can’t--I have to do this the right way. I need to think.” And he did; he needed time to sort it all out, to wade through the storm of thoughts and emotions, through all the things he wanted to say but couldn’t. 

And he wanted to say so many things, things like _I’ve loved you since Eden, since we stood on that wall_ and _I’ve loved you every moment I can remember since then_ and _I’ve loved you every time you’ve laughed, every time you’ve gotten gruff with a customer, every time you’ve dabbed a napkin at your mouth and said “that was scrumptious,” every look and every word and every single second, I’ve loved you._ But those things seemed to carry a high level of risk. Maybe he would get to say them eventually.

Aziraphale just looked at him in response, that awful, dreadful hope welling in his eyes. Crowley knew that as a “yes,” even with no words spoken. So he thought. He thought about what he could say without jeopardizing this, without disgusting Aziraphale or pushing him away. He thought about how to go about saying _I love you_ without losing his angel in response, his perfect, perfect angel, the one thing that mattered in this whole blessed world.

Several minutes passed. Crowley’s eyes were fixed on some point in front of him, looking rather glazed over as he considered all his options. _This is torture_ was a thought that crossed his mind. 

Finally, _finally,_ Crowley turned to him and spoke. “Angel. Aziraphale. I--” and even with all those minutes of thinking, he was lost on what to say. So instead of saying anything, one hand took Aziraphale’s hand from the angel’s lap, and one hand came to rest gently on the angel’s cheek, thumbs brushing the soft skin of both without a conscious thought. And Crowley sat like that, with his whole body tensed and aching and hopeful, and he looked into Aziraphale’s eyes, and he concentrated very hard on putting as much love and care and feeling and want and hope and _love_ into his own eyes as he could, concentrated so hard that tears began to form in the corners as he thought of every single moment in which he had felt that love. And finally, _finally,_ with every ounce of courage he could possibly muster, he whispered, “_Angel, I love you._”

***********

Aziraphale could almost taste it, that hope. It tasted like champagne after saving each other from destruction, like biscuits and cakes and pastries Crowley had given clearly ludicrous excuses for bringing him, like the sweet white wine they shared at Crowley’s flat after Tadfield. He briefly remembered waking up on the couch in Crowley’s flat that night, though he generally did not sleep, and finding that he was cradled in the demon’s arms, a hand running through his light curls, Crowley’s face nuzzled against his head. He swore he had heard Crowley whisper, “_Please don’t leave me again, angel, I love you,_” but brushed it off as some sort of strange dream before sinking back into sleep. Strangely, Crowley wasn’t anywhere in sight when he woke up. He couldn’t deny, though, that he felt safer in Crowley’s arms than he could ever recall feeling before. He wished Crowley would hold him like that now.

“I--oh.” It took Crowley a moment to compose himself. Aziraphale had come far too close to a confession, and it was clear that his demon picked up on it--_stop it, he’s not yours, you can’t keep going on like this._ Crowley cleared his throat. “Give me a moment, angel, would you? I don’t want to say something stupid here, I can’t--I have to do this the right way. I need to think.”

It’s not as if Aziraphale could deny him that, could force him to speak, could send him away. It’s not as if Aziraphale any less than _ached_ to hear what might come next. It’s not as if he couldn’t feel his own heart hanging in the balance of Crowley’s silence, waiting for its final blow. So he didn’t, just looked at Crowley and blinked silently, trying to push back the hope that fought its way out from behind his eyes.

Several minutes passed. Crowley’s eyes were fixed on some point in front of him, looking rather glazed over as he considered all his options; Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on the lines of Crowley’s jaw and the hollows of his cheeks--he chided himself for looking, staring, fixating, _wanting,_ but it didn’t really help--watching as the demon grew impossibly more tense with each passing second. _This is torture_ was a thought that crossed his mind, and quite probably Crowley’s too. 

He tried to tell his head to turn away when Crowley finally looked to him, but it just didn’t seem to listen. He found himself staring desperately into Crowley’s eyes, unable to do anything but wait for the words that came next, and wish again that his demon--he couldn’t even bring himself to correct the thought--would take him into his arms. 

And finally, Crowley said, “Angel. Aziraphale. I--” which was a rather disappointing thing to have waited like that for, Aziraphale thought, until he felt Crowley take one of his hands, and suddenly there was a hand on his face too, and Crowley’s thumbs were stroking small, gentle circles that felt entirely too much like unspoken _I love you_’s, and was that--yes, it was, tears were forming at the edges of the demon’s eyes, full of yet more unspoken _I love you_’s, and Aziraphale still did his level best to deny it, to prepare himself for the blow when Crowley said, _I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore._

But those weren’t the words Crowley said. Instead, Crowley said, barely a whisper, “_Angel, I love you._”

_I love you._

It was all Aziraphale could do not to burst into tears himself.

***********

They had fallen asleep in Aziraphale’s bed that night, limbs tangled together. Crowley had gotten to hold him again, hold him like he did that night after Tadfield, like his angel was the only thing keeping him tied to this earth--and really, maybe he was. As the light filtered in, Crowley woke first, the feeling of Aziraphale’s body on his inspiring a kind of warmth he didn’t know he could experience, the softness of the angel’s curls brushing against his chest. 

“_Angel, I love you,_” he had said. He couldn’t help himself. The words had been lodged in his throat so long, it burned like hellfire forcing them out. Aziraphale had melted into his touch the moment they were spoken, collapsed into Crowley like he couldn’t hold himself upright anymore, like clinging to Crowley’s lithe form was the only thing that would keep him on this plane of existence. 

“_Crowley,_” Aziraphale had whispered back, as if it were the only word he knew. “_Crowley, my Crowley, my dear._” The demon’s arms wrapped around him in an instant, of course. Crowley didn’t even really have to think about it; it was almost a sort of instinct to invite this touch, this moment, this, this, _this._

“_Aziraphale. Aziraphale, I love you. I love you, I love you._” It was almost like he couldn’t stop saying it, like floodgates had opened and the words poured out of him. He had kissed the top of his angel’s head, nuzzled into his hair much the same way he had on his own couch.[7]

“_Crowley,_” Aziraphale had said rather firmly, enough to get his attention.

“_Angel?_”

“_Kiss me._”

And that was all Crowley ever needed to hear, really. Permission to do the one thing he had thought about doing since very nearly the dawn of time. Aziraphale tasted like tea with entirely too much sugar and sweet wine and something indescribably bright and warm and, well, angelic, he supposed. It was the only thing he had ever really wanted, and it was so, _so_ much better than he had ever let himself imagine it would be.

When Aziraphale finally stirred, a small squeak escaping his lips, Crowley could only look at him in awe. He could finally openly show the reverence he’d felt since that very first day, and he had no intention of _ever_ stopping. 

Aziraphale opened his eyes, looked up at Crowley, and said, “Beautiful, so beautiful, you’re so beautiful. I love you.” 

Crowley wondered for a moment why he’d ever tried to conceal this.

_Angel, I love you._

How could he ever have said anything else?

***************

They had fallen asleep in Aziraphale’s bed that night, limbs tangled together. Aziraphale finally got to feel Crowley hold him like that again, so safe and comforting and warm. Love radiated off his demon in waves as they drifted off to sleep, the angel’s last thoughts lingering on the taste of Crowley’s lips.

It almost felt like a dream, truly. Crowley, looking like he could break open any moment, crumble into pieces, whispering, “_Angel, I love you._”

Aziraphale had collapsed unceremoniously into his arms; it rather felt like his spine had been miracled out of his body. He could feel his hands grasping at Crowley, could feel the rise and fall of Crowley’s chest as he clung to him like he was solid land in the middle of a storm (and truly, in a way, he was, given how mixed up and turbulent Aziraphale’s emotions had become at this point).

He was incredibly aware of Crowley’s arms wrapped around him, holding him like he had no plans of letting go, and barely aware of himself whispering, “_Crowley. Crowley, my Crowley, my dear._” It was all he could think of, really. Crowley’s name, his presence, his love--oh God, his love, like a swelling force that was only stronger for being hidden so long.

He heard Crowley whisper, “_Aziraphale. Aziraphale, I love you. I love you, I love you._” It was like a chant, a mantra, meditative in its own way. His demon had nuzzled into his hair, planting small kisses as he went, and suddenly Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore.

“_Crowley,_” he had said rather firmly, enough to get his attention.

“_Angel?_”

“_Kiss me._”

It was scarcely out of his mouth before Crowley’s lips found his, gentle and nervous at first, almost as if he were afraid the moment was liable to dissolve at any moment, but Aziraphale’s insistence coaxed his own. He opened to the angel, invited every touch, and Aziraphale couldn’t believe this was happening, finally happening, _finally._ His demon--really, actually his-- tasted of scotch and smoke and summer heat; he couldn’t help but catalogue every sensation, every touch, every taste, every shuddering breath. If this was a dream, he had to remember it.

When he finally awoke, he felt his demon’s body tangled with his own, strong and sinewy and unmistakably _Crowley,_ and Aziraphale finally let himself believe that maybe it hadn’t been a dream. 

He tentatively opened his eyes, worried it would all disappear, fade, leave him alone and cold all over again, but it didn’t. Crowley was there, looking down at him like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at, and he was so incredible, so lovely, so perfect, “Beautiful, so beautiful, you’re so beautiful. I love you.” He felt Crowley sink under the weight of the words, a combination of fear, longing, and relief so strong it rather reminded Aziraphale of his miraculous scotch. 

Everything was so _right,_ in a way it had never been before.

_Angel, I love you._

How had he denied it for so long?

**Author's Note:**

> 1 To be fair, he had. [return to text]  
2 Obviously, it was not focused on material things at all, and some part of Aziraphale probably knew that, but it was a part of him that he tried his best to silence whenever it spoke up. [return to text]  
3Though he still mostly denied that what he felt towards Crowley was anything other than a general angelic love of all creation, except that other creations didn’t make his heart flutter like this one did, but he tried to ignore that as best as possible. [return to text]  
4He didn’t need to breathe, of course, just found it steadying; the humans, he thought, were rather onto something with the whole “breathing exercises” thing. [return to text]  
5It should be noted that the first person to call their romantic partner ‘angel’ did so after hearing Crowley lovingly call what they assumed to be his boyfriend by the word, and decided it sounded rather sweet. [return to text]  
6 He hadn’t. [return to text]  
7 Which he had no _idea_ Aziraphale had been, however briefly, awake for, and Aziraphale would certainly never tell him, seeing as how he was still convinced it was just a dream. [return to text]


End file.
